This wonder by some glance is wrought, or Fortune’s wheel has come full round: At last the Frankish charm has been broken by the East by which in past was bound.

By the building of my nest, this secret hid was brought to view that for the bards that sing and chant the choice of nest is bolt from blue.

If slave to God, you grow divine, if slave to world a beggar mean: You are the master of your fate, so make the choice the two between.

Of selfhood heedless never be, your gaze to self always confine: Who knows, you mat anon become the threshold of some sacred shrine.

O heir to creed no god but He, in you I see no sign or trace of mighty deeds that terror strike; your talk devoid of charm and grace.

Your glances bold would strike the heart with awe, though sheathed within the breast: Alas! a qalandar’s fervent zeal in you is dead and is at rest.

Of Sanctuary’s secret hid Iqbal perhaps is well aware: His speech and song display alike a confidential moder.